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  She said nothing, her attention all for the task of guiding her horses through the heavy Saturday-afternoon traffic.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked at last.

  “It was given to me by Arabella’s sister, Emma Stone.”

  “That hateful woman,” said Hendon. “Why should she do such a thing?”

  “Mrs. Stone also gave me this portrait of you.” She held out another miniature, and after a moment, Hendon took it from her.

  “They are a matched set. Did you give them to Arabella? I wonder. Were they part of your farewell gift to her when you discovered she was with child?”

  “No,” he said gruffly, unable to grasp her point. “They were a birthday gift. Why?”

  She cast him a look he couldn’t begin to comprehend. “But you knew she had a child by you.”

  Hendon worked his jaw back and forth. He saw no point in denying it. “Have you told Devlin of this?”

  “No.” She feathered the turning onto Whitehall. “Did you know of the child?

  “I knew. It’s why she left me.”

  “She left you?”

  Hendon grunted. “I assumed you must know the whole story. It was my intention to take the child away after it was born. Give it to a good family, to be raised in the country.”

  “You would have taken her child away?”

  The edge in her voice caught him by surprise. He shrugged. “It’s the usual practice. Arabella was distraught at the suggestion, but I thought she’d come around. Instead, she left without even telling me she was going.”

  Wordlessly, Kat Boleyn eased her pair around a brewer’s wagon obstructing the road. Hendon let his gaze rove over her high cheekbones, the impish line of her nose, the sensuous curve of her lips. He’d always thought she had something of the look of Arabella. And then, from somewhere unbidden came a powerful sense of disquiet.

  “Why did Emma Stone give you these miniatures?” he asked again.

  “Emma Stone is my aunt.”

  Hendon opened his mouth to deny it, to deny everything she was suggesting. Then he shut it again. If any other young woman had come to him with such a claim, he would never have accepted her statements at face value. But this woman of all others had no reason to claim him as her father and every reason not to.

  “My God,” he whispered. “I always thought you resembled her, but I never imagined…” His voice trailed off. He stared across the tops of the elms in the park, their leaves suddenly so brutally green against the blue of the sky that he had to blink several times.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked at last.

  “Tell Devlin. What else can I do?”

  He studied the beautiful, hauntingly familiar face beside him. He had always thought of her as his adversary, the woman he had to fight to prevent her from ruining Devlin’s life. He found that he still thought of her that way. He had to think of her that way. He could allow himself nothing else. Not now. “You could simply go away,” he suggested.

  “No,” she said fiercely. “I won’t hurt him like that again. Not a second time.”

  “Then let me be the one to tell him.”

  He thought at first she meant to refuse him. She drew in a quick breath, then another. And it was only then that he realized she was fighting back tears.

  “Very well,” she said, drawing up before the palace. “But you had best tell him right away, because the next time I see him, I will tell him if you have not.”

  Chapter 53

  Outside, the sun shone brightly on the last of what had been a fine September day. Sebastian could hear the sound of children laughing and calling to one another as he walked into his library and laid the Harmony’s long-lost log on his desktop. For the briefest instant, he found himself hesitating. Then he opened the charred leather binding and stepped back into a dark and terrible episode.

  The voyage’s first weeks out of India had been uneventful, and he skimmed them quickly. Some captains kept extensive, chatty logs. Not Bellamy. Bellamy’s entries were terse, impatient—the hurried scribblings of a man who kept his log to satisfy his ship’s owners rather than himself. He made only brief lists of his passengers, officers, and crew. Sebastian ran through the names, but there were no surprises. There had been twenty-one crew members. There, near the bottom of the list, Sebastian found the name Jack Parker, but he recognized none of the others.

  He flipped through the days, the long layover in Cape Town, the fine sailing as they headed up the west coast of Africa. And then, on the fifth of March, Bellamy had written:

  2:00 a.m. Strong gales with a heavy sea. Clewed up sails and hove to.

  6:00 a.m. Strong gales continue from the WSW. Carried away the main topmast and mizzen masthead.

  3:00 p.m. Shipped a heavy sea, carried away the jolly boat and two crewmen.

  There was only one scrawled entry for the next day, 6 March.

  10:00 a.m. Gale continues. No idea of our position at sea. Reckoning impossible in storm.

  Two days later, Bellamy wrote:

  8 March, 7:00 p.m. Shipped a heavy sea, washed away the long-boat, tiller. Unshipped the rudder. Cabin boy, Gideon, suffered a broken arm. Plucky lad.

  As bad as things had been, on the ninth of March they got worse.

  11:00 a.m. Pumps barely able to keep water from gaining. Crew restive. Cargo thrown overboard, but ship still lying heavy in the water and listing badly to starboard.

  2:00 p.m. Ship suddenly righted though full of water. A dreadful sea making a fair breach over her from stem to stern. We are surely lost.

  5:00 p.m. Gale dropped to strong breeze. Employed getting what provisions possible by knocking out bow port. Saved twenty pounds of bread and ten pounds of cheese, some rum and flour, now stored in maintop.

  10 March. 6:00 a.m. Isaac Potter slipped into hold and drowned before we could get him out. Committed his body to the deep.

  10:00 a.m. Crew restive. It is obvious that if we don’t spot a ship soon, the Harmony must be abandoned. Yet with no jolly boat or long boat, all cannot be saved.

  11 March. 2:00 p.m. Crew mutinied and abandoned ship, taking most of remaining provisions and water. Officers and passengers left aboard. God save our souls.

  13 March. 5:00 p.m. Stern stove in. I know not how we stay afloat. Made tent of spare canvas on forecastle. Able to salvage a bit of rice and more flour from below. Rationing half a gill of water each per day, but even at this rate it will not last long.

  14 March. 7:00 a.m. Small shark caught by means of running bowline. Sir Humphrey rigged up a teakettle with a long pipe and a stretch of canvas to fashion a kind of distillation. But it affords only one wineglass of water a day each, barely enough to maintain life. Gideon feverish.

  16 March. 10:00 a.m. Sir Humphrey has improved upon his distillation process. We can now manage nearly two wineglasses each per day. Barnacles gathered from side of vessel and eaten raw, but they will not last.

  23 March. Suffering much from hunger. Gideon hanging on, though I know not how. No nourishment now for seven days.

  24 March. 2:00 p.m. Saw a ship to windward. Made signal of distress, but stranger hauled his wind away from us.

  25 March. 7:00 a.m. I like not the mutterings amongst the passengers. They have been awaiting the death of the cabin boy, Gideon, intending to feast upon his dead body. But he has not died, and now there is talk of killing him.

  5:00 p.m. A dark day for us all. Over the objections of myself and Mr. David Jarvis, the passengers and ship’s officers voted to hasten Gideon’s death. Mr. Jarvis sought to protect the lad, but the others rushed him and in the altercation a cutlass was thrust through young Jarvis’s side. I thought for a moment Gideon would be saved, for they would make their meal of Mr. Jarvis instead. But, though injured, the young man defended himself stoutly, and they returned to Gideon.

  Reverend Thornton delivered the last rites while Lord Stanton held Gideon down and Sir Humphrey Carmichael slit his throat. The poor lad’s blood was caught in a basin
and shared amongst the passengers. Then the body was cut up into quarters and washed in the sea. They drew lots for the choicest parts. The Reverend and Mrs. Thornton drew the poor lad’s internal organs; Sir Humphrey an arm; Lord Stanton and Mr. Atkinson shared a leg, and so on. Even those such as Mr. Fairfax and Mrs. Dunlop, who had argued against the killing of the lad, did not fail to join in once the evil deed was done.

  Only Mr. David Jarvis, wounded though he was, refused to partake of the feast. “Why should I condemn my soul to hell,” he told them, “so that I might live for one or two days more? I know well who you will fall upon once you’ve picked clean the bones of this poor lad.”

  I myself found I could not quiet my stomach sufficient to eat the poor lad’s flesh. But when they passed the cup of his blood, God help me, I drank.

  Pushing up from his desk, Sebastian went to pour himself a glass of brandy. But the brandy tasted bitter on his tongue and he set it aside.

  Through the window overlooking the street he gazed down on a lady’s barouche driven at a smart clip up the street. A child chasing a hoop along the footpath glanced up to shout something, and the golden sunlight fell gracefully on his honey-colored hair and ruddy cheeks.

  It was easy to condemn the passengers and officers of the Harmony, Sebastian realized, easy to sit in security and comfort and reassure oneself of one’s own superior moral fiber and courage. But no man can truly know how he will act until faced with such a choice: to hold to his convictions and embrace death, or to kill and live?

  Reaching again for his brandy, Sebastian drank it down. Then he went back to his desk and read.

  26 March, 8:00 a.m. English frigate hove in sight. Hoisted the ensign downward and the stranger hauled his wind toward us. Remains of cabin boy thrown overboard. Mr. Jarvis holding on to life, but he lost consciousness as the Sovereign hove to, and I doubt he will live to see another dawn.

  There was one last line, entered in a shaky scrawl, then nothing.

  10:00 a.m. Committed his body to the deep.

  Chapter 54

  Sebastian closed the log, then sat for a time staring down at the charred leather. It was one thing to suspect that the passengers and officers of the Harmony had resorted to cannibalism and murder, but something else entirely to read the terse record of their long, horrible ordeal.

  The Harmony’s log explained much about the recent killings that had before seemed incomprehensible. He now understood that the strangely varying mutilation to which each of the victims had been subjected corresponded exactly to the lots drawn by their parents after Gideon’s murder. Adrian Bellamy had been spared the others’ butchery not because his killer had been interrupted, as they’d supposed, but because his father, Captain Bellamy, had not himself partaken of the dead cabin boy’s flesh.

  Yet the deliberate ordering of the killings struck Sebastian as less logical. It made sense that Barclay Carmichael had died before Dominic Stanton, since Sir Humphrey Carmichael had personally slit Gideon’s throat while Lord Stanton had held the boy down. But Reverend Thornton had simply given the boy last rites. Why had his child been the first to die? And why had Captain Bellamy’s son been slated as second on the list? Whatever his reasoning, the killer had considered his ranking of the victims so important that he had reserved the mandrake root for Adrian Bellamy even when the naval lieutenant’s absence had forced the killer to move on to the next victim on his list.

  But what struck Sebastian as the most vexing question of all was, How had the killer known in such excruciating detail the events that had transpired aboard that ship? The only logical explanation that presented itself was that the killer had been there on the ship himself.

  Was that possible? What if one of the crew members had been left behind when the others mutinied and abandoned ship? Bellamy’s log entries had been brief and sporadic; would he have bothered to name one or two crewmen who’d been abandoned by their shipmates? Sebastian was just flipping back to Bellamy’s listing of the Harmony’s original twenty-one crew members when the sound of the knocker followed by his father’s voice in the hall brought his head up.

  “I thought you’d sworn never to darken my doorway again,” said Sebastian when the Earl appeared at the entrance to the library.

  Hendon jerked off his gloves and tossed them along with his hat and walking stick onto a nearby table. “Something has come up.”

  He went to stand before the empty hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his weight rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet. “I’ve never claimed to be a saint. You know that,” he said gruffly.

  Sebastian leaned back in his chair, his gaze on the Earl’s heavily jowled face. He had no doubt as to why his father was here. A man who had once offered a young actress twenty thousand pounds to leave his son alone was not likely to sit idle and let their marriage take place now without doing everything in his power to stop it—and then some. Sebastian gave his father a cold smile. “I know you’re no saint.”

  “I’ve kept mistresses over the years. After your mother left, and before.”

  “I’ve made Kat my mistress. Now I intend to take her as my wife.”

  “For God’s sake, Sebastian! Just hear me out, please. This isn’t easy. One of the women I had in my keeping was a young Irish-woman by the name of Arabella. Arabella Noland. Her father was a clergyman from a small market town to the northwest of Waterford, a place called Carrick-on-Suir. Ever hear of it?”

  “No.”

  “It was the birthplace of Anne Boleyn.”

  Sebastian knew a deep sense of uneasiness, although he had no idea where his father could possibly be going with all this. “And?”

  “She came to London with her sister, Emma. Emma married a barrister by the name of Stone. She’s made something of a name for herself over the years as a moralistic writer, much in the vein of Hannah More. Perhaps you’ve heard of her.”

  “I’ve heard of her.”

  “Yes. Well, the younger sister, Arabella, was by far the prettier and the more lively. There was no dowry to speak of, and the family was from the meanest gentry—and Irish to boot. Arabella—”

  “Became your mistress? Is that what you’re saying? When was this?”

  “Twenty-some-odd years ago. You were still in leading strings.”

  Sebastian pushed up from his chair. “If you think by means of this tale to dissuade me from my marriage to Kat—”

  “Let me finish. We were together for more than three years. Then she learned she was with child.”

  Sebastian watched as his father swung away to brace his outstretched arms against the marble mantelpiece. It was a moment before he could go on. “You know how such things are often handled. A servant delivers the infant to the parish along with a small sum of money, or the child is farmed out to a nursemaid in some mean hovel. They never survive. Perhaps that’s the whole point. I don’t know. But it’s not what I was suggesting. I found a good home for the child—a family of respectable yeoman farmers whom I had every intention of supervising carefully.”

  “But she didn’t want to give up the child, I take it?”

  Dark color stained the Earl’s cheeks. “No. She begged me to abandon the scheme. I tried to make her understand that anything else was impossible. I even thought I’d succeeded. But then, several months before the child was to be born, she disappeared. I searched for her, but to no avail. Sometime later I received a note from Ireland. It said simply, ‘You have a daughter. She is well. Do not attempt to find us.’”

  Hendon pushed away from the mantel and swung to face Sebastian. “This morning, Emma Stone paid a visit to Kat Boleyn. It seems the woman is Kat’s aunt. She brought her these.” Reaching into his pocket, he drew forth two miniatures that he laid on the desk beside Sebastian. “They’re portraits of her parents.”

  The woman in the first painting was a stranger, although it was easy enough to trace the likeness to Kat in the beguiling juxtaposition of that childish nose and the full, sensuous lips. The secon
d portrait was of the Earl of Hendon as he had been twenty-five years ago. Sebastian stared down at the twin porcelain ovals framed in filigree and felt an explosive welling of denial and fury and fear. “No.”

  He slammed away from the desk. “Mother of God. Is there nothing to which you will not stoop in your effort to prevent this marriage?”

  “No,” said Hendon in rare honesty. “But even I could not have invented this.”

  “I don’t believe any of it. Do you hear me? I don’t believe it.”

  Hendon’s jaw worked back and forth. “Talk to Miss Boleyn. Talk to Mrs. Emma Stone—”

  “Have no fear that I shall!”

  “They’ll tell you the same tale.”

  Sebastian swept his arm across the desktop, sending the miniatures flying. “Goddamn you. Goddamn you all to hell.”

  Hendon’s eyes—those vivid blue St. Cyr eyes that were so inescapably like Kat’s—twitched with pain. “You can’t blame me for the fact that you fell in love with that woman.”

  “Then who the hell do I blame?” raged Sebastian.

  “God.”

  “I don’t believe in God,” said Sebastian, and he slammed out of the house.

  Chapter 55

  Sebastian went first to Harwich Street.

  “Where is she?” he said when the maid Elspeth opened the door.

  Elspeth stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Miss Boleyn isn’t here.”

  Sebastian pushed past her. “Kat?” he called, and heard his voice echo through the empty house.

  He ran up the stairs to the drawing room, then took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. “Kat!”

  A minute later, he was back downstairs. “Where is she, damn it?” he demanded, coming upon Elspeth in the entrance hall.

  The maid looked up from the oil lamp she’d been trimming. “I don’t know. She went out.”